Today a lovely and close friend from college, who I will call Doris, called me.

“I’M LOSING MY MIND, DJ!” was the thesis of the call. You see, Doris has runner’s knee, and has moved to Crazytown as a result. The conversation made me strangely emotional, as I recalled my months on the DL.

Apparently, Doris’ husband (who is also — kickass! — training for the NYC marathon) essentially told her, “Calm down. It’ll get better.” And while, yes, the runner with a nagging but low-pain injury needs to take a chill pill and also develop a meaningful and close relationship with a physical therapist, STAT, telling them to “calm down” is about the equivalent of telling someone with ebola who is also bleeding out the eye sockets, “Walk it off, champ. It’s just a sprain.”

Dramatic? Yes. Overstatement? Probably. But fiddle-dee-dee. Bite your tongue. To tell the Serious Runner not to run is like…well… <violin chorus cue> telling the sea to stop roaring like a restless lion. Like telling the clouds to stop their inexorable dance across the heavens. <oboes and timpani chime in> Like telling a daisy not to bloom its beautiful face toward the sky. Like telling that little brat from across the street to stop trying to pee on your bicycle tires as you ride by. <sopranos> Like telling a foul-mouthed blogger to stop using the word “boner” so much.

Some forces, friends, can’t be stopped.

So when Doris told me her worries and frustrations, I felt for her.

She said, “I see all these people with PERFECTLY GOOD KNEES not taking advantage of it!”

“I know!” I chimed in, rolling about on my bed at 11 AM.

“Like, do you know how GOOD YOU HAVE IT?”

“Dude! Like, get up off your ass already,” I added, rolling over to my computer, consulting Bing image searches to compare the merits of shirtless-Prince-of-Persia-Jake-Gyllenhaal-covered-in-a-fine-layer-of-Arabian-Sand-grit versus shirtless-Gladiator-Russell-Crowe-covered-in-a-fine-layer-of-Coliseum-dirt-grit (revisionist history is SEXY, bitches!), and also whether I could survive on the sawdusty dregs from Friday’s trail mix left in the baggie in my work-backpack next to my bed, or whether the strenuous trek down two flights of stairs would be necessary so that I could score a few spoonfuls of Quik (shut your godawful mouth, haters; I don’t judge you for those nudie Carol Channing pics I found in your den).

See, even in light of Doris’ withdrawal, I was suffering myself from a mild case of burnout. You know you need a day off when, even not-training for anything, you’re running enough that your plantar fasciitis is acting up and the word “fartlek” is no longer funny and your soul hurts when you see the giant mobs of Team in Training people out on the trails because YOUR running isn’t fighting disease or helping people or dutifully clogging the trails around Bethesda for the rest of the world (hey. Just saying.).

Ever since my convalescence, I had been attempting to do every run with a good old can-do gung-ho grateful-for-my-health KAPOW! sort of spirit, but Jaysus. Sometimes it feels so optimistic and perky and spunky that I want to punch myself in the face and do a self-administered swirly. So (sorry, Doris), I did the unthinkable — I took TWO STRAIGHT DAYS OFF.

Anyway. Tomorrow is another long run. Back on the horse, back to the sweaty drippy fun. Mmmmm…..

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Oh, and in other news, Madam Sixpack has a blog. In which she tackles the big life questions, about God and love and war and conflict and pain and joy and loss and suffering and…oh, no, my mistake. It’s about her love of reading about throbbing, painful erections. ENJOY!